


A Call to Arms

by Ninjaninaiii



Category: Dickensian (TV)
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M, Post Series, Sad with a Happy Ending, attempted suicide, basically jaggers looking after arthur and making sure he's okay okay, episode 20 spoilers, hugs heal, i don't think i've written such tropey tags since my ff.net days jeez, references to compeyson's abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6087559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaggers allowed himself a smaller step towards Arthur, feeling a tug at his heart pulling him forwards. He raised a hand, slowly. Arthur hadn’t vocalised it to him, but Jaggers had seen the wounds Arthur had been graced with since he’d spent more time in Compeyson’s company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Call to Arms

“Jaggers, what on earth is that noise.” 

“That, Arthur, is a baby.” 

“Why,” Arthur took steps towards the sound of the child, staggering from what Jaggers assumed was the rather large volume of alcohol in his bloodstream, “Do you have a baby?” 

“We can discuss this when you’ve sobered yourself. Come, Arthur, I’ll get you a glass of water.” Jaggers paused as the other man only hummed, Arthur’s eyes closing as he hovered on the spot. “Would you like to sit down?”

“And risk me ruining your furniture? Oh Mr. Jaggers, you are too kind.” Jaggers smiled a tight smile, unsure whether to be relieved Arthur could joke in the situation. It was evidently a defence mechanism; a small, hurt animal lashing out, making himself look larger than he felt. Well. This, at least, was better than desolation. 

“I would prefer your being seated when you eventually collapse.”

“How sweet.” Arthur stood swaying for a second or two while Jaggers watched, almost mesmerised by the slight movement. He broke the concentration with a cough and turned towards his small kitchen. Once equipped with a glass and a pitcher of water, he returned to find Arthur perched on the edge of one chair, watching the doorway.

“Do you need a bowl?” Jaggers asked, setting the glass on the table. He watched Arthur shake his head. 

His eyes were still wild and raw, his hair unbrushed and loose, his shirt unbuttoned and his waistcoat barely on. Jaggers took a slightly deeper breath and attempted a softer smile. “Drink, Arthur.” Arthur nodded, picked up the glass and put it to his lips. Once sure Arthur wasn’t in immediate danger, Jaggers crossed the room to where the baby lay in its cot. He made sure it was warm, tucked in, and touched its forehead to check its temperature. It seemed fine.

“I didn’t know you had a wife.” Jaggers looked up to find Arthur watching him, a small, almost genuine smile in his eye. Arthur let out a soft huff of air. “Come to think of it, I don’t know your forename. I don’t know you and yet you’re the only man in the world I can trust.”

“One is better than none.” Jaggers stroked the baby’s soft head hair one last time before turning his attention to Arthur. “You cannot go back to the Three Cripples. Compeyson may still be about, and Bill Sikes cannot be trusted to keep a vigil over your door when so close to ale.” 

“So I am to be homeless! Arthur Havisham, of the London streets.” 

“Don’t be foolish. You’ll stay here until we can organise permanent lodgings. Your sister was in shock today, we may be able to deal with her yet.”

Jaggers had closed the distance between them, yet at the mention of Amelia, Arthur had seemed further away than even before. He was looking up, past Jaggers, almost as if seeing through him. 

“Arthur.” The fear on Arthur’s face added a harshness to his tone. “Arthur?” 

“Amelia-” 

“Will be fine. She has had a great shock. But she is strong. She shall persevere.” 

“Her scream-” Arthur’s voice wavered, tears more than pinpricks in his eyes. 

Jaggers allowed himself a smaller step towards Arthur, feeling a tug at his heart pulling him forwards. He raised a hand, slowly. Arthur hadn’t vocalised it to him, but Jaggers had seen the wounds Arthur had been graced with since he’d spent more time in Compeyson’s company. He’d suspected Compeyson was not a savoury character, but even he had not realised the true source of Arthur’s injuries until this afternoon. He allowed Arthur seconds to pull away before placing his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, nothing more than a warm press but, he was relieved to note, it calmed Arthur, reduced the dreadful harshness in his eye.

“Let us get you to bed.” Jaggers let go of Arthur’s shoulder and felt a soft swell of emotion to see Arthur seem upset by its absence. “I have spare bedclothes, though you might swim in them.” 

Arthur stood, covering his eyes in a most-likely attempt at subtlety, wiping the tears that had gathered. “Does not your lady wife mind my impinging?”

“This may not be Satis house, but it is big enough to entertain guests, thank you, master Havisham.” Jaggers threw Arthur a smile to soften the words, hoping Arthur would not think him offended by the pretended insult.

Jaggers led Arthur upstairs to where the hallway split: Jaggers’ own master bedroom to the right, the spare rooms to the left. He pointed out bathrooms, closets, where to find towels, before laying one of his smaller nightdresses on Arthur’s bed. 

“Do you require any more assistant, master?” Jaggers asked, smug grin pulling at one edge of his lip as Arthur coloured. 

“I don’t remember you ever attempting to be  _ funny  _ Jaggers, I don’t trust it.” 

“Sleep well, Arthur.” Jaggers bowed a mock bow, smiling as he left. As he closed the door, he caught sight of Arthur removing his shirt. His instinct told him to look away, to preserve what little was left of Arthur’s privacy and yet, before the door shut fully, his eyes were drawn to the red lashes across Arthur’s back. Not bloody, he didn’t think, but still healing. Welts from being lashed. Jaggers gritted his teeth as he stood in the dark hallway, forehead against the cool wood of the bedroom door.

Arthur was not innocent of the crimes he had committed against his sister, that much was true. Jaggers still could not eject the idea that Arthur had brought his downfall upon himself, hiring a man from an alehouse to do his dirty work and yet— those marks were not simply a punishment. They were given in red-hot anger, a fit of passionate, unerring hatred. Arthur had been alone for months, bearing this  _ torture,  _ and now he would be blaming himself for Amelia’s ruin. 

There would be conflict, that was sure, and it would not resolve itself easily. But Jaggers was good at his job, and his job, at this moment, was to make sure Arthur Havisham took care of himself.

-

Arthur was holding a piece of toast between his thumb and forefinger, the golden bread dripping in rapidly-melting butter. “I don’t have any money to give you.” 

Jaggers cut himself a slice of ham to lay on his plate with unrivaled precision. “I realise.”

“I don’t have a single pound to my name.”

“No.” 

Arthur bit into his toast, looking the height of civility, as if he had not a care in the world. 

“I just hope your sister does not endanger the company through her actions.” 

“Maybe she should. Maybe she should bring the whole house crashing down, and we can start from the ashes. I read a book like that, once.”

“You can read?” Jaggers poured himself another cup of tea, refilling Arthur’s as he did. “You seem rather like you’re dealing with your situation far better this morning.”

Arthur nodded, his new smile not reaching his eyes in a relatively terrifying fashion. “You see, Jaggers, I have a secret.”

“More secrets, Arthur? I thought we’d done away with those.”

Arthur laughed, a small, hurting kind of laugh, hunching in on himself like a child dissecting an insect. “Would you like to know my secret?” he asked, conspiratorially. 

“I’m rather afraid not to know, if it’s anything like yesterday’s.” 

Arthur dragged his chair slightly closer, reached into his inner jacket pocket and removed a flask. “Start drinking when you wake up and you shan’t get a nasty headache.”

Jaggers’ expression soured, mouth pinching. “You’re already inebriated. It’s not yet nine, Arthur.”

“I know!” Arthur exclaimed, a forced glee in his voice. “If father could see me now.” Arthur unscrewed the lid of the bottle and poured whatever it contained into his tea, stirring the concoction with his finger before licking it clean. “But where are my manners?” Arthur asked himself, “Would you care for a tipple, my friend?”

“No, thank you.” Jaggers held his teacup close to his mouth to prevent its secret insemination. 

“Oh, don’t look so down, Jaggers. I shan’t throw myself from the roof if that’s what you’re hung up upon.”

“Yesterday’s spectacle took years off of my life, attempting to get you down, I would thank you greatly if we could avoid a repeat performance.” Jaggers watched Arthur take a sip of his laced tea and frowned at the serene expression falling on his features. A placebo effect, he was sure. He would find the flask later and confiscate all alcoholic beverages while Arthur slept.

-

Jaggers had had to return to work that day; the city never sleeping, not even after the ruin of the Havishams. They were not his only customers, and he would be sorely missed if he were to spend much more time out of the office. 

This meant bringing Arthur with him, like an overly emotional, easily bored child. Jaggers did not wish to leave Arthur alone, only to return home to find a body and the detective Bucket to console.

Arthur’s interest had been piqued to begin with: given a free reign of his office, Arthur had spent an hour or two leafing through confidential documents containing the details of dozens of his previous business-partners. Eventually, however, the endless accountant notes must have tired him and so he sat, unmoving, in the seat across Jaggers’ desk.

Jaggers could feel the weight of the look and knew Arthur was attempting to provoke him into a conversation (though perhaps polite enough not to interrupt outright.) Jaggers had ignored the look for what at best guess was near on an hour before he needed to relieve a crick in his neck, meeting Arthur’s eye in the process.  

This was apparently enough for Arthur. “Why are you helping me?”

Jaggers dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, the papers he was writing far too important to drop partly finished for another of Arthur’s rambles. “Ah-” At the sound of realisation, however, Jaggers risked a look up, confronted with Arthur’s lips, trembling, stretched into a cynical grin. “You win back my sister’s favour through me, then you blackmail me too.”

Jaggers did not restrain a roll of his eyes as he sat back in his chair, abandoning document. “I think you’ll find, Arthur, I am relatively well paid.”

Arthur licked his lips, quickly, grin disappearing, replaced with a darting, suspicious look. 

“What. Arthur, you look as if you’re about to cry, what is the matter?” 

“Our… conversation?”

“We have had many  _ conversations _ , Arthur. You might want to specify if I am to help you.”

“Compeyson. He must have… You must have…”

Jaggers sat back, consideration on his own face now. “Arthur, were you Harrow or Eton?” 

“Harrow.” 

“Which was I?”

“Is this… a trick question?” 

“I was head boy when you were a shell.” That drew Arthur’s attention: his eyes raised from studying the carpet, searching Jaggers’ eyes instead. A shell, a new boy. 

“I don’t remember you,” Arthur said, obviously racking his brain for any memory of their having been in the same school environment.

“No, I don’t suppose you would. I remember you, though.”

“Let me guess, you thought I was an entitled, precocious arse and wished never to speak to me, much less serve me.”

“You were a very small fourteen-year old. You looked more like your sister than your father. As head boy, it fell to me to protect the young Havisham heir from… designs.”

Arthur paled, unable to drop the look Jaggers was giving him. Jaggers kept his features emotionless, attempting a non-provocative expression. “I have been protecting you from yourself for over a decade, Arthur. Rest assured when I say no matter what Compeyson said to me, it’s nothing new.”

“Then you- you know what I...”

“You were hardly the first pretty boy the school had seen, Arthur.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “But in school, I… if you were protecting me, no boy would have…  _ been  _ with me.”

“I was hardly going to prevent you from experiencing…” Jaggers broke the eye contact, gaze flicking to his bookcase, then to his fingers. “Well. What you did in school is none of my business. I only kept those who might prey on you from harbouring dangerous thoughts.”

“Oh.” Arthur bit his lip, pale face brightening a little. Then, seconds later, “I wish to tell you that you failed.”

“Failed?” Jaggers repeated, not immediately understanding Arthur’s cryptics.

“Your job was to protect me, was it not? From men with indecent designs?” Arthur was still saying it as if it were all a jest, but the teasing beauty in his eyes was being replaced by that feral danger. “You see, Compeyson used to say the same things to me, would talk about my father being proud of me, until he found out about—” Arthur waved at himself, “Of course, and then he would lean in close, watch my lips, mingle our breaths—” 

“Arthur, did he ever—?”

“Oh no, of course not, he wasn’t…” Something crossed Arthur’s features. “Or it was me, I know well that I am not half as beautiful as my sister, my dearest mother must have been quite the witch to seduce dear old father—” 

“Arthur, you are every bit as beautiful as your sister.” Jaggers winced at his own forthcomingness, but committed, too late to back out now. “And every bit as sweet, and as charming when you aren’t under immense stress and heartbreak.”

Arthur wouldn’t look at him, his mouth twitching between pleased smile and pained frown. “Thank you.” Then, a trifle less relieved, “Oh.” Arthur’s spine straightened from a defeated slouch, attempting to fix his state of disarray. 

“Arthur?” Jaggers asked, watching him warily.

“So that’s what you’re after.”

“Oh for pity’s sake, Arthur.” Jaggers sighed. “I’m not attempting to blackmail you for sexual favours. You may trust that word of who gets in and out of your bed shall never leave my lips, and I rather hoped you might extend the same courtesy to me is all.”

“You! But you have a wife, Jaggers.” Arthur sniffed, still unable to lift his eyes to meet Jaggers’. 

“I have the least bit of interest in women, Arthur.”

“You’re having an affair? Your poor child, Jaggers.” Arthur was talking rapidly, attempting to steer conversation away from his own unsavoury past. “Or is the child your bastard child? Is that why I’ve yet to be received by Mrs. Jaggers?” 

“I don’t have a wife, Arthur, nor do I have a bastard child.”

“So then you’re a child trafficker. Even better! Do you give the children to men like us so they can raise an army of perverts and inverts?” 

“Sadly, trafficking would involve my being given any money for the transaction, which I do not receive. I merely act as the middle-man between my clients’ reputation and things that could cause scandal. Lords who have children of scullery maids, ladies who have not waited for marriage and must visit the countryside… It is either they are rehomed by myself, or they are killed, or, even, sent to the workhouse.” 

“That could have been me.”

Jaggers opened his mouth to reply, but paused, reconsidered his words, and started again. “Yes.” 

“Did my father know of your… side business?”

Jaggers nodded. “Though the enterprise was begun by my father.”

Arthur’s lips pouted as he looked around the room: a well-used office, frequented by many of London’s richest businessmen. Jaggers had not built this empire by himself, he, too, had had to build upon his father’s wishes to become a good enough lawyer, at his young age, to be trusted by his father’s previous customers.

“My father was your father’s lawyer before he died. I had shown promise through school, and as such Mr. Havisham hired me, on a trial basis, as soon as I had graduated from Oxford. It was a pity I only had the pleasure of working for him for seven years, but as things are, I think I am qualified to tell you that your father loved you as much as Amelia.”

“My father hired you out of college because he had hired you to protect me from being treated indecently in boarding school?” 

“That’s a rather simplistic condensation, rather decreasing my narrative of hard graft and scholastic genius—” 

“Well, mister genius. ‘There’s no greater compliment he could have paid me’,” Arthur quoted, “‘No greater love he could have shown,’ was it?”

“That might have been what I said, yes.” Jaggers avoided Arthur’s eye. Motivational speeches were all well and good until they were repeated back to you by ungrateful men with wide eyes and wider smiles. 

“A ‘call to arms’.”

“You are a pompous prick.” Jaggers could feel a slight flush brush across his features. “What is your point, Arthur? That I am incapable of poetics? I feel the master at Harrow could have told you that.”

“No. ...I liked the speech. Thank you.”

“May I continue with my work now, Sir?”

“I suppose one of us has to have money.” Arthur’s smile, at that moment, was the happiest it had been in nearly a year. 

-

A day into the alcohol confiscation, Jaggers had panicked about Arthur’s sudden tremors, his extreme sickness, and had allowed Arthur sips at his flask. From then he had decided not to remove the alcohol entirely, and at once, but decreased the scale of consumption. Arthur was only young, and the addiction only new; his habits broke easily, but were also subject to temptation. 

Jaggers did not drink himself but kept bottles and decanters for business guests who might grace his house uninvited for a drink. On three such occasions, Arthur had helped himself to the drink, Jaggers unable to prevent it due to his ridiculous sense of social propriety. 

Their evenings were spent in Jaggers’ sitting room, surrounded by his books, warm and settled. Tonight was one of the nights were Arthur would sit, curled into himself across the room from Jaggers and stare at a spot on the wall just below the ceiling as if watching a horrific murder take place. 

Countless times, Jaggers had attempted to console, to turn Arthur’s attention away from what he could only gather was an apparition of Amelia, but to no avail. To touch Arthur meant startling the man and causing a violent reaction. Soft words went unheard, rash ones went unanswered. It felt heartless to ignore, but Jaggers knew Arthur would drag himself from his revelry in due time.

“Jaggers, let me drink.”

Jaggers shook his head, turning a page in a book that had gone unread and scanning lines that he couldn’t read. 

A sudden bawl made both startle: it was easy to forget the child when days were spent at work and there was a nanny to silence it at night. Tonight, said nanny had asked for early leave, which Jaggers had granted. He was hardly inept at caring for children, nor did he have pressing work to be getting on with. The nanny had promised that the child had been in a good mood, and was unlikely to wake, but children were fickle, and Jaggers was only momentarily paralysed by the sound. 

He stood and strode towards the cot, taking the swaddled child into his arms. He hushed it, rocking slightly.

“Jaggers, what’s wrong with it? It sounds deranged.”

“It’s crying, Arthur, have you never heard a baby cry before?” 

Arthur shook his head, watching Jaggers like he was holding a primed pistol. “Is it dying?”

“It might be hungry. Or have spoilt itself. Or lonely.”

“How will you feed it, Jaggers? Will it die of starvation? Shall I find a- a streetwalker?” Arthur was standing from his settee, eyes not leaving the child. 

“It will be fine, Arthur, don’t panic.”

“But the noise, it’s terrifying. It must be in such pain!”

Jaggers did not prevent a warm smile from his lips, taking soft steps towards Arthur, who froze at the proximity. “Here,” Jaggers said, pressing the child against Arthur’s chest, “Hold her.”

“No, Jaggers, she’ll die!” Arthur’s hands came up, automatically, to prevent Jaggers from simply dropping the child to the floor, clutching at the baby’s material for purchase.

“She shan’t die. See, you have her.” Wary, still, Jaggers did not distance himself but simply relaxed his grip so Arthur held the weight of the baby for himself. 

“Her name is— well, there’s the problem, I couldn’t quite hear. It is either Estella or Esther.” 

“Estella,” Arthur whispered, apparently deciding the child’s name for himself. “She’s quite ugly, I hope she grows to be pretty. Was her mother pretty?”

Jaggers laughed. “Yes. Some would say she was enviably pretty.”

“That’s good, she shan’t be treated nicely if she isn’t a pretty lady. Hush, Estella, you shall be a beautiful baby if you aren’t crying so.” Jaggers liked to imagine Estella only got louder at Arthur’s comments.

As soon as the child had fallen asleep (nearly three hours after first waking,) Arthur had handed her to Jaggers, who had placed her in her cot, and had turned back to find Arthur asleep on the settee, blissful smile on his face. Jaggers battered an unnaturally happy expression on his own face while he retrieved blankets to cover the man with.

He sat, that night, watching the two sleep, hoping that neither would wake, both deserving the peaceful rest. 

-

“Jaggers? What is it?” 

Arthur was descending the stairs, coming into the breakfast room half-dressed and half-awake. 

“A letter,” Jaggers said, scanning the lines again. 

“How thrilling. Don’t get much of those, do we,” Arthur laughed, his hand dragging over the pile of this morning’s post, ready to be open on a small silver tray beside a letter knife.

“From your sister.” 

“Amelia?” Arthur stopped, hand hovering over the knife. “What- have you been in contact with her?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. 

Jaggers shook his head, reading one last time before licking his lips. “‘Dear Mr. Jaggers,’” he begun. “‘I have been shut up in these rooms a long time (I don't know how long; I keep the clocks at twenty minutes to nine, the exact time he left me)’” Jaggers paused, checking Arthur’s reaction before continuing. “‘I want a little girl to rear and love, and save from my fate.’”

Arthur opened a letter not addressed to him, feigning nonchalance. “She knows about your business.” 

“Apparently. Perhaps your father mentioned it to her.” The letter crumpled in Arthur’s hand. 

“She’s demented, lonely—” Arthur threw away the letter and took a step towards Jaggers. “We should go to her!”

Jaggers shook his head, eyes on the lines of almost-illegible text. “She wishes not to see us. Only to leave the girl at the gate.”

“Jaggers, I’ve been a fool— I’ve lived here for a year, completely forgetting her, her plight! and now she wishes never to see me again—” 

“Arthur, Amelia is wise enough to make decisions of her own.” Jaggers could not help but feel the slight jealousy that Arthur’s hurt stemmed from: as if the year spent with Jaggers meant less to Arthur than the shot at befriending Amelia. Not that he wished the siblings ill will; he would gladly see the two make up, but he thought he had done enough for Arthur that he would at least feel like he had no… regrets.

Arthur took the letter from Jaggers’ hand and read it through himself, still distrustful of any information that had no legitimate source. Arthur fell into the chair beside Jaggers, tossing the letter onto the pile of unopened paper. He watched Arthur swallow. 

“She’s able to write, now. To send letters. That’s… good.”

Jaggers nodded, his own heartbreak mending. He leaned closer, cupping Arthur’s hand on the table and stroking Arthur’s thumb with his own. “She has decided to adopt the girl to help her heal her heart. We should be thankful that she trusts herself in the position of responsibility.”

Arthur let out a breath, slowly forming a smile. Jaggers could see tears well and he smiled. “Perhaps you siblings aren’t so different as you once thought.”

“Estella…” Arthur said, quietly. “Perhaps Amelia would like her. To take care of Estella. She has helped me, perhaps she will be as effective on Amelia.”

Jaggers nodded, pleased Arthur had come to the same decision he had on reading the letter. “Soon she shall be too old for two businessmen to care for; inappropriate, too, to have her grow with two bachelors.”

“Amelia will like her,” Arthur said, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve. Jaggers’ smile only grew at the break in Arthur’s voice. “She’ll be a fine daughter for my sister.”

“And a fine lady for a fine uncle.” Jaggers patted Arthur’s hand one last time before pouring Arthur tea and passing over the rack of toast. “I shall be honest, I’m rather relieved I shan’t have to witness your feeble attempts at child-rearing much longer. Another year, and the girl will be able to talk, to mimic voices: imagine if she had had your influence at such an impressionable age!” Jaggers ignored the emotion welling in his own voice, swallowing a gulp of too-hot tea in an attempt to rid the painful lump lodged in his throat. 

“She’s a hazard already and she can barely crawl: any longer and she’d be falling down stairs, breaking your priceless pottery,” Arthur countered, stirring sugar into his teacup. 

“Oh, dreadful. My mother would look down and shake her head at my treatment of her precious heirlooms.” Both shared a small laugh, the rest of the breakfast spent in bitter-sweet melancholy. 

Jaggers took Estella to Satis House alone, neither he nor Arthur trusting Arthur not to make a scene, even in good will. As he reached the gate, he allowed himself a long look at the house: the gates overgrown, the wedding flowers adorning the metal now withered and being overtaken by fresh ivy. The cobbled path was already sprouting weeds between the cracks, and the house, once the envy of all London society, looked decrepid, dead of all life and character. As he watched the windows, one curtain shifted and he started, his heart thumping with excitement. A flash of white, then stillness. A spectre. 

When he looked back down, a man dressed in black was leaving the house. The porter. He cracked the gate open slightly, enough to pass the basket. “Her name is Estella,” Jaggers told the porter, whose own face seemed haunted, more gaunt than he had looked just over a year ago. 

The porter nodded, locking the gate again. “Oh!” Jaggers fumbled in his pockets, the porter pausing in his return. “This, the mother asked this be kept with the child. A token of her love. Will you tell Amelia to keep it with the child?” Jaggers asked, handing the necklace to the porter, who nodded, wordless. “Thank you. Give… Tell Amelia… Will you let her know Arthur is… healing? Please.”

The porter said nothing for a second, the silence of the London twilight gloomy when so close to such a house, but then the man smiled, an expression Jaggers assumed the man had not had much practise of over the last year. “Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.”

Jaggers nodded and watched the black shadow resume its place inside the house.

-

Arthur made a terrible clerk. He was brash, rude to visitors, and had no mind for numbers. He made a better lawyer, a good, persuasive speaker, with a trustworthy face. With Jaggers’ good word, previously spurned businessmen felt less wary of trusting the Havisham, and if Arthur could learn as fast as he promised he would, Jaggers felt sure they could make a fine partnership.

“I shan’t give you a wage until you have earned enough for last year’s board,” Jaggers joked the evening of Arthur’s first full day as a Jaggers employee, earning an Arthur-grade look of sour dislike for the comment. 

“Then I shall never earn a thing, and father’s call for arms shall be for naught.” 

Jaggers clinked his glass against Arthur’s, (champagne, half-full, trusting Arthur’s tested limits,) half pleased, half confused at the comment. “And why is that?”

“Because, Jaggers,” Arthur said, adopting his fake bravado, a tactic that meant Arthur would be revealing his true heart by hiding behind forced narcissism. “I do not plan to be vacating this property any time soon, so you shall have to accept my work for my board. Thus I shan’t be earning a living.”

Jaggers refused to be elated quite so early, biting his lower lip. “Must we return to lessons so soon, Arthur? I thought you knew the difference between a living and a profit. You shan’t make much of a profit but a living—” 

“I regret to inform you, however,” Arthur said, cutting Jaggers off and addressing the ceiling, a sure sign that Arthur was working himself up to a vulnerable confession. “I am incredibly displeased with my living quarters, and demand the master bedroom.”

“Already occupied,” Jaggers replied, taking a gulp of his champagne. 

“Your wife, yes, how could I forget,” Arthur said, a tease in his voice betrayed by the look of mortification in his expression. 

“She’ll be incredibly displeased if I were to bring another man into our bed,” Jaggers said, slowly, watching Arthur’s face for clues. 

“I have heard from a reliable lawyer,” Arthur said, testing the waters himself, “That I am quite beautiful, and on occasion as sweet and charming as a Havisham.” 

“You’ll have to give me the name of the lawyer, he seems a right cad.”

“Oh he is, he’s an appalling man, forging a marriage, trafficking children, truly abysmal.” Arthur put his glass down, eyes peeled from the ceiling only to focus on the whorls of the table. “Handsome, though. And kind.” 

Jaggers found his hand in Arthur’s hair, thumb stroking Arthur’s cheek, lips upon his own. He pulled apart, looking for anything in Arthur’s eyes, worry on his own brow. “Do you want this?”

Arthur’s hands were around his waist, the light touch as if hesitant to be caught doing so. 

“I—” Arthur glanced away, took a strengthening breath before meeting Jaggers’ eye again with a self-deprecating grin. “I have found that I might…” Arthur licked his lips, “I like you, Jaggers. Quite a bit.” 

Jaggers let out a sigh of relief and stepped further into Arthur’s space. “May we continue?”

Arthur laughed but was the first to press his lips to Jaggers’, a sweet, innocent kiss. “Good God, I have been gagging since  _ Harrow, _ ” Arthur said between deeper kisses, completely dispelling any imagined sweetness. 

Jaggers laughed, breathless, finding incredibly gratifying ways to make Arthur be quiet. Jaggers pulled Arthur closer, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck in a protective embrace. He felt Arthur’s hands creep tentatively further around Jaggers’ middle until he, too, was returning the gesture. Arthur rested his chin against Jaggers’ shoulder and Jaggers took the opportunity to kiss one of Arthur’s curls against the side of his head. “I like you too, Arthur.” This turned out to be the easiest way to catch the man off-guard— Arthur’s grip tightened and he felt Arthur’s breath stumble in what was probably a sob. 

“Shall I show you the master bedroom, Mr. Havisham? It’s quite roomy, big enough for your ego, perhaps.”

He felt Arthur’s laugh, his breath against his neck and grinned, smug. Arthur was healing. He hoped Arthur’s father would have approved. They would build a life together.  He was in love. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Amelia's letter taken from her story in Great Expectations... I don't know if it's a fan theory or a like canon Dickensian thing that Honoria's daughter Esther becomes Estella Havisham? Please feel free to... adapt/adopt this fic as you please. 
> 
> ninjaninaiii.tumblr.com


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